Never Look Back
by Alice Turner
Summary: After a tragic event, Holmes' life is destroyed. With Watson gone, he turns to the one person he loved and loathed: Irene Adler. Together, they forget their painful pasts and learn to never look back.
1. Goodnight

**Yaya! New story to work on :D**

**Do enjoy? Please?**

**AT-**

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The day his world ended, Sherlock Holmes was sprinting down a back London alley. The clattering sound of shoe-on-stone echoed in the small space, the only other sound was that of his best friend and associate, Doctor John H. Watson doing his best to keep up with the 32 year old detective. Holmes slid to a stop and peeked around a corner. As Watson caught up with him, his sore leg smarting something fierce, Sherlock had pressed himself against the brick wall, revolver loaded and ready. "Watson," Holmes whispered, "_they_ are right around the corner. We've got them now, mother hen. Wait till The Yard gets wind of the news." He chuckled deviously, the thrill of the chase leaving a peculiar glint in his grey eyes. Watson only sighed, doing his best to hide a smile promising to tug at his lips. "Holmes, Kara wanted me home by six." Watson whispered in return, and Holmes wrinkled his nose. Karaliene, Watson's second wife after Mary Morstan, held a bit more favor, but any woman who would interfere with the cases was not held in Holmes' highest esteem. The Doctor only smirked in return, fingering the cool metal of his revolver.

With a last solemn nod, Sherlock dove around the corner, precariously dodging fists and cudgels. Watson only sighed and jumped into the fight after him, barely diving out of the way of a stray bullet. "Watson!" Holmes snapped as he was flung to the ground by a rather large German. The Doctor did his best to keep an eye on Holmes, while also trying to keep from getting hit by the lead chain now being swung by one of the thugs. "Holmes," Watson replied, punching a short man in the stomach and delivering a blow to the head, "A bit busy!" Holmes only shouted in reply as a giant barrel came smashing to the ground, missing his head by a fraction of a millimeter. After beating the large German down, and ensuring he would be unconscious for several hours, Holmes rejoined his friend. Watson was slowing down, obviously tired, and more and more of the men came after him. Sherlock did the best he could, and the duo fought back to back. When they thought they had everyone beaten and the Yard on the way, one man did a very shocking thing.

He surprised Sherlock Holmes.

Watson was too busy delivering the final blow to a stocky man to notice the cudgel swinging at his head.

Luckily, Holmes saw it.

The detective shoved Watson to the side, but he himself was not so lucky. Instead of smashing into Watson, the bat hit Holmes. As the detective fell to his knees, a slight groan of pain escaping, a shocking sound cracked through the air. Before Sherlock could comprehend what had happened, John Watson fell to the ground. Holmes struggled against the urge to close his eyes, which would result in unconsciousness most certainly, in order to help his best friend. The two men lay side by side, sprawled on the cold ground, and stared into each other's eyes. The last thing Sherlock Holmes saw before he blacked out was the icy blue stare of his best friend in the world, John Hamish Watson, sending him a final farewell.


	2. Safe in My Dreams

**I now present you (Kara) with chapter two.**

**sorryikilledyourhusband.**

**AT-**

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The sound of muffled voices was the first thing he noticed. All low, husky voices except for one. Contralto, he thought to himself, his head promising to pound into several pieces. The voices were louder now, clearer. The contralto voice was nearest to him, murmuring softly. The first thing Sherlock Holmes noticed when he opened his eyes was The Woman.

The frightening part was that it took him a whole ten seconds to realize she was holding his hand.

"Holmes!" A short man said rushing to the side of the Detective's rarely used bed. "Get him some morphine; he's got to be in pain." A few men scrambled about the room, trying to follow Mrs. Hudson's orders as well as their police chief's. Irene Adler sat on the edge of the bed, stroking the back of Sherlock's hand with her thumb. Holmes' eyelids only fluttered as Inspector Lestrade questioned him. He mumbled, barely comprehendible, and tried to answer the many questions to the best of his knowledge. The entire time this affair was taking place, Miss Adler sat beside the hurt Detective, her eyes swollen. It was obvious she had been crying. "Lestrade…" Holmes croaked, the hoarseness of his voice even shocking himself, "how long was I ...out?" Lestrade only closed his eyes and replied softly, "About three days." About three days. He had been hit hard enough to be unconscious for three days. Thought he could remember nothing from the event three days before, one thought stuck out in his mind.

"Inspector, where is the Doctor?" Sherlock whispered, realization hitting him. Tears flooded Irene's eyes as she continued to hold his hand tightly, and she looked away.

Lestrade only shook his head sadly and bit his lip.

A part of Sherlock Holmes wished he had never woken up.


	3. Rushing Back

**sadface.**

**AT-**

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The funeral was an emotionless affair.

Sherlock Holmes sat with Karaliene Watson, now a widow, and her daughter Sarabeth. Kara's eyes were red and nearly swollen shut and Sarabeth sat silently and clung to her mother. Holmes settled next to the woman stiffly in his rarely worn suit, his bruised face and pounding headache only making the event worse. Emotions did not come naturally to the Detective, and even more so in this case; He was too shocked to even register what had happened. He knew Irene Adler was in his house, though he wasn't sure why or how. She had left after spending the night, which wasn't entirely unusual for her. He hadn't seen her in four days. As the pastor droned on about eternal life and heaven, Sherlock fought to keep his eyes open. Ever since his…accident… he had trouble staying upright and staying awake.

Karaliene wiped her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief, shaking silently next to Holmes.

This was just too much to handle.

* * *

The burial wasn't any better.

Solemn words and dark dirges only added to the dreariness of the afternoon, the black clouds threatening to burst at any moment. Sherlock Holmes stood with Karaliene and Sarabeth Watson, watching as they lowered the sleek black coffin into the ground. Holmes barely noticed anything, a slight relief to his damaged mind. At the edge of the small gathering stood a tall woman in a long black gown, facing Holmes. They locked eyes for a moment, a temporary truce passing between them. Irene Adler knew.

The pastor said the final words and the small crowd departed, Karaliene leading the procession, but Holmes stayed behind. He sat for a long time after everyone had left, staring silently at the mound of fresh earth. Even as the sky opened up and a heavy rain spilled, he sat.

For the first time since infancy, Sherlock Holmes let the tears run down his face.


	4. Questions for Questions

**two words.**

**TEAM IRENE.**

**AT-**

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It had been exactly one month, three weeks, 2 days, 16 hours, and 6 minutes since John Watson had died; To say that Sherlock Holmes drank away his sorrows would be an understatement. He spent most of his time locked in his room, either swigging down bottle after bottle of whisky, or dozing between doses of cocaine.

It would be fair to say that he was not at all expecting visitors when she showed up at his door.

Sherlock Holmes stumbled down the staircase, muttering about Mrs. Hudson and her lack of proper service. When he opened the front door, cringing slightly at the sunlight, he had to resist the urge to slam the wooden object, sprint back up the stairs, and hide in the dark of his room. But he was Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock," she murmured, stepping forward to wrap her arms around his neck, "My sincerest apologies." Though her sincerity was apparent, she took the slightest hint of satisfaction at the fact that when she hugged him, it made him extremely uncomfortable. "May I come in?" Irene asked politely, and Holmes only nodded in affirmation, showing her up to his study. She picked through the dark room carefully, taking an armchair by the smoldering fire. Holmes paced the floor in his usual track, before turning to face her direction. "Why are you here, Adler," he asked bluntly. The desire to beat the bloody woman at her own game had waned the day his best friend was covered with soil.

Irene only rose from her chair and silently sauntered toward him, a sad smile on her face. "I came to convince you to move on." Sherlock only blinked, her words not registering. "Sherlock, this isn't healthy. Locked up in this room, practically drowning in alcohol," Adler murmured, stepping towards him. Their faces were mere inches apart, and she could feel his chest rising and falling as he breathed. "I miss the old Sherlock," Irene whispered, closing her eyes.

Holmes only blinked down at her; His mind had shut down ages ago. What a bizarre creature this Adler was, behind her tough façade real feelings hid. This sudden realization bothered Holmes for some reason.

So he slapped her.


	5. Played Along Again

**We all know he is too fond of himself for suicide.**

**AT-**

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It was a beautiful night, he thought as he looked at his city. From his spot atop the newly built Tower Bridge, Sherlock Holmes could see the lights of London. Above him, barely visible stars glinted in the black velvet sky. On the contrary, when he looked down, the Thames seemed dark and menacing and _cold._

It was for the best, he thought. The suffering will end. He'll be happy again and maybe, _maybe_ he'll find Watson. Though Sherlock Holmes didn't exactly believe in an afterlife. He played a final tune on his beloved Stradivarius, which he had carried with him to the bridge. As he was hitting the last high E, a harrowing sight struck him. Holmes recognized those curls. He recognized that voice. Three men were kidnapping a woman. Frankly, they looked to be having a rough time. One man had a bleeding nose, broken most likely, and another's eye was bruising up painfully. The only man who didn't seem in an awful state had his arms wrapped around the waist of the woman, pinning her arms. She was giving him a struggle. Silently walking towards them, mindful of sticking to the shadows, Holmes crouched low.

The woman being blindfolded and thrown into the back of a carriage was none other than the infamous Irene Adler. As the driver of the vehicle urged the horses on, Holmes sighed and slinked out of the shadows. One hand clutching the violin by its neck, and the other grasping the horse-hair bow, he sprinted after the speeding carriage. Yet again, he found himself properly risking his life for the woman he loved and at the same time, hated.


	6. Time to Dance

**I must say that Iron Man 2 is the highlight of my month.**

**AT-**

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She was scared.

Irene Adler would never admit it, but she feared quite a few things. As she lay, bound and blindfolded on the floor of a speeding carriage, she considered the things in which she found frightening. For one, she had never been particularly fond of blood or anything of the sort. She wasn't great with heights, either. The one thing that she feared the most, however, was _him_. If he found out what kind of hold he had over her, Sherlock Holmes would certainly use it to his advantage. He could die; he could overdose on one of his companion drugs.

Or he could marry.

She pushed that thought from her mind as quickly as it came. She would rather see him dead than in the arms of another woman. Sherlock Holmes wasn't the type for marriage or romance or anything even distantly related to love, luckily. Irene knew that marriage between herself and the detective was extremely unlikely; they both loved the games too much. The games and the endless and forgotten and "non-existent" nights. Adler knew what he was doing on the bridge; she saw him and purposely tried to entice him away from the edge. He was playing the song, her song, the Merry Widow.

As Irene settled into the hard floor of the cab, every jostle and uneven track the wheels hit making her even more and more uncomfortable, she sighed. At least he wasn't going to jump. For now. He was chasing her, she knew that much.

He always would.


	7. Amsterdam

Thank God for the rain.

As Sherlock Holmes sprinted after the speeding carriage carrying away _that woman, _a beautiful and terrible thing happened. As the vehicle sped around a slick corner, it overturned and skidded into a building. The detective dropped his beloved violin to the cold cobblestones and made his way to the collapsed cab, just in time to see two of the thugs who kidnapped _her _in the first place stumble away, cursing. Holmes paid them little attention; they didn't matter at this point. As he picked his way around splintered wood, he saw the third man.

He was bruised and bleeding and his skull was broken in several places. He wasn't breathing. Holmes sighed, but a sick realization crossed him. Irene was nowhere to be seen, which only meant she was _under_ the broken carriage. He couldn't quite remember, the lingering haze of the drugs deluding his usually keen memory, but he thought he had seen her handcuffed.

No amount of alcohol or drugs could ever make him work faster as when he struggled to save her, the woman, the soul of his existence. Sherlock dug through broken wood and leather, only the two black horses proving that the world hadn't in fact stopped altogether. It didn't take long to find her.

She was bleeding and unconscious, her hands bound behind her back as she lay curled on the cold stone. Irene had bits of wood in her auburn curls and splinters in her arms. Holmes only stood above her for a moment, unsure of what to do, before he carefully and silently scooped her into his arms, holding her close to his chest. Sherlock Holmes did the only thing he could, amidst the shock.

He ran, his feet landing in rhythm with the shallow breathing of the only woman he ever loved.


	8. Play On

When Irene Adler awoke, she had a pounding headache. Not your average migraine, mind, but a splintering one, a headache proving to smash your skull to a million pieces. She also noticed the smell.

It smelled of old books and smoke and freshly washed horses. _It was his smell_. Slowly, ever so slowly, she opened her eyes to see the exhausted face of Sherlock Holmes. He was sitting on the edge of his small bed and he looked like he hadn't slept in days. "Irene," he murmured, near inaudibly. "Sherlock? What… where the hell am I?" Irene whisper-shouted, immediately regretting it as her head drummed against her temples. Holmes' eyes widened, shushing her. "Adler," he said calmly, "Don't shout. Do not participate in anything strenuous. Those men who kidnapped you… their carriage overturned while you were in it. You have two broken ribs."

Irene only blinked up at him, before snorting, "Two broken ribs? You failed to mention the fact that my head feels near implosion." Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up, heading towards his bedroom door. "You need your sleep, Adler." She smirked as if to add some snarky comment, but she stopped herself. He was right. Oh, how she _hated_ when he was right. Irene only nodded slightly and turned over slowly, closing her eyes.

As Holmes shut the bedroom door, he couldn't help but smile. She was alive. Not only was that woman alive, but she hadn't changed a bit.

He was glad he hadn't jumped.


	9. Speak Now

"Mr. Holmes, be careful!" Mrs. Hudson scurried into Sherlock Holmes' bedroom as the detective stood above the bed and that _woman_ currently residing in it. Holmes was trying, and failing, to change the bandages on Miss Adler's arm. Irene's face way pale and damp, and she was quite obviously in a lot of pain. Sherlock was cursing under his breath and trying to slowly pull the soiled bandages off.

Mrs. Hudson could not have arrived at a better time.

"Nanny," Holmes hissed through clenched teeth, "We are not in need of your assistance." Irene only widened her eyes at the poor landlady and bobbed her head slightly, wincing as Holmes brushed against a particularly bruised spot. Mrs. Hudson sighed and scooted Holmes away, "Sherlock, just accept defeat and make yourself useful elsewhere." Holmes only snarled a "_Never_" in return, but stood aside, taking the chair next to his—Irene's—bed.

Adler sighed in relief and sat back, her auburn curls falling around her shoulders. She noticed Holmes sitting stiffly and turned over, careful not to budge the sore arm Mrs. Hudson was currently bandaging. Irene winked at him. He tried to fight back a smile, but lost. Sherlock Holmes sat grinning like a fool at Irene Adler, who grinned back, in the fading sunlight of a cold autumn day in London.

How he loved that wink.


	10. Crack the Shutters

Mrs. Hudson only sighed in defeat and continued putting Mr. Holmes' breakfast together. Sherlock sat at the rarely used dining table with a satisfied smirk, the daily paper spread out before him. He chose to be decidedly cruel this morning to dear Mrs. Hudson by requesting that he actually have breakfast prepared for him. Holmes wanted French toast, eggs, fresh bacon and tea. It was his way of getting back at the poor landlady for showing him up in front of Irene. Yes, all the woman did was properly address Adler's wounds, but to Sherlock it was much, much more. He had a hard enough time trying to maintain his composure in front of the damned woman as it was, he didn't need added embarrassment.

Holmes wondered silently if Irene was even still _Miss Adler_. The rate that woman married was appalling. He hadn't seen a ring, but with her, nothing was ever expected…

Sherlock's eyes slid upward as Irene dragged herself into the kitchen, her face looking sickly from the pain of climbing out of bed and down the stairs. Holmes only blinked and watched her as she took the chair opposite him at the table, her hair wild. The part that shocked him most, however, was the fact that Adler was wearing his morning robe.

That was never a good sign.


	11. The Lightning Strike

Irene smirked. The way he reacted to her committing simple acts amused her beyond all compare. Irene Adler stood leaning against the doorway of Sherlock Holmes' bedroom, watching the very detective mutter to himself about that _bloody woman_ and gather up her things, flinging them into her open trunk in the center of the room.

"Are we redecorating?" Irene asked from the doorway, and Holmes started slightly at the sound of her voice. "No, madam. I am here to help you pack and see you out. You are no longer ill, so I ask that you leave as soon as humanly possible." Irene only nodded slightly, a smirk still playing at her lips as she sauntered up behind him. "I thought you loved me being here, darling. I believe _someone_ told me before that last time I left... you nearly tore yourself to bits trying to discover my motives," Irene purred, but her face immediately blanched. Watson had told her that.

Watson was dead.

Holmes only stared at the floor as memories of his late best friend flooded his mind. How dare she bring him up.

"Out," Holmes hissed and spun around to face Adler, his glare fixing on her beautiful features. "Sherlock... I'm sorry, I-" The detective only snarled and stepped forward, so the two were nearly touching, "I said get out." Pointing at the door for extra measure, Holmes slammed the silk kimono of her's that he had been holding down into her trunk. Irene stared into his gray eyes for a moment before leaning forward to clear the mere inches that sat between them, placing her lips softly on his. With one last glance at the furious detective's eyes, Irene Adler limped out of the dark bedroom and slowly down the stairs.

Holmes stumbled into his study and slid into his armchair. Watson was dead and Irene was gone. She was still wearing his robe. As Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned against the wing of the chair, one thing consoled him.

He could still faintly taste her lips.


	12. Raindrops on Roses

**Recently, I came across a chapter of a story that had an event occur that was identical to one of my own. I know for a fact that this chapter was published after mine, and it was no coincidence. I am rather disappointed in this lack of creativity on the author's part, and would like this to be known:**

**Arthur Conan Doyle owns all of the characters so far, save for Karaleine and Sarabeth Watson. **

**Alice Turner owns all of the plots, events, dialogue, and affiliated. Stealing my ideas without my consent and not giving me credit is a violation. Also, it just shows a sense of laziness and lack of originality. Seriously, just come up with something else.**

**Sorry for the rant. Here's chapter 12.**

**AT-**He was now completely alone.

* * *

He hadn't taken a case in months, he barely left his study. Mrs. Hudson spoke very few words to him these days, and it made Sherlock Holmes feel even lonelier.

The first time Irene Adler visited months after Holmes made her go, she dressed in his button-down and black slacks, obviously ones she had stolen, and silently climbed through the window of his bedroom. Holmes sat in the study, staring into the fire, and pretended he didn't hear her. It wasn't that she was loud, she was a professional criminal, and therefore made hardly any noise, but he could sense her. Holmes could smell her Parisian perfume; he could nearly hear her heart ticking. Adler was searching his rooms for something; he could hear her moving about the space, before she climbed back out the window.

Sherlock Holmes felt a tinge of sadness, because yet again, Irene Adler managed to slip through his fingers. The detective rose from his armchair and silently crept to his bedroom. Upon peeking into the room, he saw a patch of moonlight steaming from the open window.

In the pool of light sat his violin.


	13. And We Took it Slow

Sneaking into 221b became a habit of hers. Since she returned his violin, Irene Adler "visited" the detective every night. It became a game of theirs, because Sherlock Holmes knew she was there but never let on. She fascinated him beyond measure.

Irene we was equally thrilled, her life was but a game. She would leave tiny clues to her presence, ones she knew only he would notice. Sherlock Holmes never once caught her, for fear she would stop sneaking in. Adler would only stay for a few minutes before gracefully sliding back out the window from which she came.

One night, Holmes hid on the other side of his half closed bedroom door in order to see what it was she did. Sitting in the darkness and peering through the crack in the door, he saw Irene silently glide across the threshold and slide her fingers over the polished wood of the footboard of his bed. Her hair was loose in curls around her shoulders as she sat on the edge of the bed, her slender hand resting on the sheets. Irene looked down at the floor for a few moments before turning her head to face the open window, the city lights casting a soft glow on her face. Holmes noticed something odd. There were streaks pouring from her eyes, but she made not a noise.

Irene Adler was crying.


	14. I'm Dying to Find Out

"Irene," Holmes murmured softly as he pushed the door to his bedroom open and stood, walking towards her. Irene immediately tensed and made for the window, not wanting to show her weakness, not wanting to let him see her crying. Sherlock was faster; he caught her wrist gently and stopped her in her tracks, but she still refused to look at him. "Irene," he repeated quietly, pulling her towards him in order to force her to look up, "Why…?" Adler only closed her eyes and tilted her face to look at him, whispering, "I miss it."

Holmes looked at her quizzically, his hand still softly locked around her wrist. "I miss being here. I'm tired of running, Sherlock. I'm tired of marrying and I'm tired of constantly trying to hide my emotions," Irene continued, her auburn eyes blaring into his grey ones, "I miss you."

Sherlock only looked down at her, his face betraying no hint of emotion. Irene turned to leave, silently cursing herself for showing her true feelings.

But Holmes was always faster.


	15. The Death of Me

He pulled her back to him by her wrist, his lips melting into hers. The kiss was quick, but Sherlock wrapped his arms around the woman, his chin resting on the top of her head. Irene only closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face, and breathed in his scent. They held each other this way for what seemed to be ages, neither of them wanting to disturb the moment

* * *

She had fallen asleep in his armchair and he gently lifted her, carrying Irene to his bed. Sherlock lay above the sheets next to her, feeling her soft breathing and rhythmic heart. He absentmindedly played with a strand of her hair as he smiled to himself. Irene Adler had surrendered the games. She wasn't going to run anymore, she wasn't going to leave. Not yet, anyway. She could always change her mind in the morning and slip out. He pushed these thoughts out of his head, trying to focus on the brilliancy of the moment.

She was back.


	16. Come November

"I hope I didn't keep you awake, Sherlock," Irene Adler murmured, rolling over in the four-poster bed to face him, "I know you're not used to sharing your bed with near strangers." Adler grinned, her face half hidden under the white sheets. Holmes tried as hard as he could to not smile at the damned woman, but his eyes gave away his emotions, "Irene, darling, you are hardly a stranger."

The Woman giggled wickedly and sat up, sliding forward onto her knees. "I told you I would be missed, didn't I? I think I was right—like always." With this said, Irene swung one knee over the detective so she was straddling him, gauging his reaction. Holmes tensed slightly and automatically clutched her wrists in one hand, "Irene… Perhaps this is a bit soon. You do have a tendency to leave unexpectedly after we, ah, engage in such activities." Adler only sighed, her gaze flickering to his face, "I will not leave again. Not for long amounts of time, at least. You can't expect me to stay forever, Sherlock. It isn't fair to lock me up in such a way. And besides: You love the thrill of the chase."

"I'll be abandoning the chase if I start believing you," Holmes murmured as her lips crashed against his.


	17. Where We Belong

She was true to her word, for the most part.

Irene would leave, but never for longer than a month at the most. One morning Sherlock Holmes would awake to find her gone, and after sulking for most of the day, he would snap out of it and resume his detective duties. On one random night she would return again and stay with him for a bit longer than she was gone. Irene Adler may have been a wild dove, or some sort of songbird, but she would always fly home come nightfall.

This trend continued for months, and they were both generally happy. When Holmes was alone, however, usually in the dark hours of the morning, he would remember his lost friend, and how, apart from Adler, he was completely alone. He hoped Watson was happy, wherever he was. He hoped Watson thought about Sherlock as much as the detective thought about his best friend.

One night, while Sherlock and Irene sat before the fire, a very peculiar thing happened.

Irene sighed and turned to face Sherlock, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Sherlock," she murmured, moving to kiss his neck, "I have some news."

Holmes chuckled slightly, absentmindedly playing with a strand of Irene's hair, "Oh? And what is this news you so speak of, darling?" Adler only blinked, and whispered.

"I'm pregnant."


	18. Epilogue

**I really enjoyed writing for you all, and I apologize the story must end!**

**Thank you for your reviews, dear readers. Maybe I'll write a sequel?**

**AT-**

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It was a beautiful May 22 day.

Sherlock Holmes strolled through Saint James' Park with Irene Adler at his arm. Ahead of them ran a small girl with bouncing brown curls and grey eyes, chasing after a waddling duck that didn't appear to be too frightened of this little girl.

Today was Alice Holmes second birthday.

The warm wind blew though the wildflowers of the park, sending waves through the colored grasses. Irene called out to the girl with a laugh, shaking her head, "Alice, darling, don't touch that bird!" Alice only pouted as the duck flapped its wings and made for the water, gracefully floating on the pond. Sherlock chuckled slightly as the little girl came bouncing back to Irene, waving her arms frantically in an attempt to be picked up and held. Holmes lifted the girl from under her arms and held her, admiring her perfect ringlet curls. As they walked through the park, The Detective looked to the sky. Never would he have though that he would have a daughter to carry and teach the names of the birds to and finger-paint with. But here she was, smiling and bouncing and running and playing. How she looked just like her mother.

Holmes was generally happy these days; he rarely felt the need to indulge in his favorite drugs. That woman would leave occasionally, leaving Alice at home for a few days, but she would always return.

Sherlock still missed Watson.

It had been nearly three years since his best friend's murder, but Holmes rarely went a day without thinking of him. How he wished Watson was here to see this, the doctor would have found the whole idea of Holmes being a father extremely humorous and extremely unlikely. But Holmes wasn't bitter anymore; he had accepted the loss of his companion. As he looked to the sky, his daughter in his arms and his wife by his side, Sherlock couldn't help but smile.

He was sure John Watson was up there, somewhere, smiling back.


End file.
